everything.

SEELCHEN. Is God here?

LAMOND. Who knows? Is God with your goats? [But SEELCHEN shakes
her head] What then do you want?

SEELCHEN. Life.

The mandolin twangs out.

LAMOND. [Pointing to his breast] There is but one road to life.

SEELCHEN. Ah! but I do not love.

LAMOND. When a feather dies, is it not loving the wind--the unknown?
When the day brings not new things, we are children of sorrow. If
darkness and light did not change, could we breathe? Child! To live
is to love, to love is to live-seeking for wonder. [And as she draws
nearer] See! To love is to peer over the edge, and, spying the
little grey flower, to climb down! It has wings; it has flown--again
you must climb; it shivers, 'tis but air in your hand--you must
crawl, you must cling, you must leap, and still it is there and not
there--for the grey flower flits like a moth, and the wind of its
wings is all you shall catch. But your eyes shall be shining, your
cheeks shall be burning, your breast shall be panting--Ah! little
heart! [The scene falls darker] And when the night comes--there it
is still, thistledown blown on the dark, and your white hands will
reach for it, and your honey breath waft it, and never, never, shall
you grasp that wanton thing--but life shall be lovely. [His voice